In Good Hands, Chapter 1
by Jada115
Summary: Denny and Miranda share a moment and Alan helps Jerry. Original BL characters belong to D.E.Kelley. Miranda Houston/bit parts my own. Romance. No slash or flash.
1. Chapter 1

In Good Hands

Chapter 1

Alan and Miranda were reviewing a file at Alan's desk when Denny came into the office.

He stood at the desk, staring at them, confused. "I came here for a reason, I'm sure of it," he muttered.

They waited.

At last Miranda said, "Is it about a case?"

"No." He shook his head.

"Is it about your penis?" Alan said, smiling.

"I don't think so." Denny looked down. "He's a little moody today, but otherwise fine." He looked back up at them.

Alan laughed quietly. Miranda shook her head.

Denny crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his chin with his fingers.

"Well, if it's not about a case and not about your penis, I can't imagine what else you would want to talk about," Alan said.

Denny's face brightened and he snapped his fingers. "I got it! What are you two doing for dinner tonight?"

Alan raked his eyes over Miranda. "We have dessert accounted for, but as for dinner we haven't made any plans."

"We haven't really discussed it," Miranda said. "Did you have something in mind?"

"Double date? With me and Joan. That new place: The, uh, flower something…Daisy."

"Tulip," Miranda said.

Alan smiled, looking at Denny.

Miranda said, "That sounds like fun. They have live music there." She turned to Alan. "What do you think? I've wanted to try that place since it opened a couple months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Alan said. "I would have taken you."

She shrugged. "There never seemed to be a good time. But we can do that now."

"Sounds good," Alan said to Denny.

"Great! I'll make the reservations."

"I can make them for you, Denny," Miranda said, looking cautiously at Alan. "What time?"

"Is 7:30 good?"

"7:30 is perfect," Alan said. He placed a hand on the small of Miranda's back and added, "Miranda, why don't you set the reservations for us?"

"I can do it," Denny said.

Alan said smoothly, "I know you _can_ Denny, but why should you? You're Denny Crane, you _give_ the orders. Miranda here gets paid to do all the _small _insignificant things you shouldn't have to do."

"All right. I'll tell Joan. Better call her now so I don't forget." He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"Joan, Denny Crane. Listen Joan, you, me, Alan and Marcie…"

Alan whispered, "Miranda."

"Hold on," Denny said, moving the phone from his mouth and asking Alan, "What's that?"

"Miranda." He pointed at Miranda.

Denny looked at her. Miranda waved.

Denny returned to Joan. "Uh, Miranda and Alan, you and me for dinner tonight at that new flower place."

"The Tulip," Miranda said.

"The Tulip," Denny replied to Joan. "At 7:30." Denny listened for a moment. "Okay. We'll meet you there." He snapped his phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. "We're on. This is going to be fun." He slapped Alan on the back. "We haven't been on a double date together in a long time."

Alan watched Denny walk away then turned to Miranda. "Joan seems to have put a certain spring in his step."

"I believe so. I'm eager to meet her. Do you like her?"

"I do."

"What's she like?"

"Vivacious, sharp, sophisticated, attractive. Everything Denny is and deserves; everything that lives up to the name: Denny Crane."

Miranda smiled at him, leaning against the desk. "She sounds lovely."

"She is. I worried about him after his last marriage to Beverly and then," he chuckled, "his _disastrous_ relationship with Bethany…and her mother."

Miranda's eyes widened. "Don't tell me he dated both at the same time."

"No." Alan chuckled; then he thought. "Well, it's difficult to say actually. His relationship with Bethany was so tumultuous I could never tell when and where it began and ended; so there may have been a time when he was indeed dating both women."

"Sounds…complicated."

"It was," Alan laughed. "Nevertheless, he seems to have made a true come back." He paused to look at the paper in his hand, made a couple marks, then he added, "Please make sure he doesn't forget about tonight…in a way that…." He looked at her, his eyes conveying anxiety, edged with sadness, "Protects him."

"Don't worry. He's in good hands."

"Undoubtedly." He took her hand in his a placed a kiss in her palm-a move that sent chills all over her.

* * *

Miranda was at her desk, typing a document when a man approached and stood in front of her desk. Her eyes glanced up his body until they reached his boyish face. He wore glasses and had short golden-blond hair.

"Good morning. Jerry, right? I've only met you once but…"

His hand flew to his face and put a cigarette in his mouth and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. "Hey there sweet cheeks, I'm here to see Alan Shore not jibber jabber."

Miranda looked at him, smiling tightly, her eyes glinting. "I think you'd better back up and try again."

"Look here doll face," he said, jerking the cigarette from his mouth and tapping on it as if tapping off ashes. "I'm on a deadline, so move those pretty lips and swinging hips…"

"Now you listen to me…" Miranda shoved back her chair and stood.

Jerry took the cigarette out of his mouth and fumbling dropped it in his pants pocket. He hopped.

He stammered. "I'm, I'm, I'm, I'm terribly sorry. I just…"

Alan peeked out his office door. "Jerry!" he said, happily, greeting him with arms open wide. He patted him on the back. "It's good to see you. Come in."

Jerry was still rambling, "I'm terribly sorry. I just…"

"Don't worry about that right now, Jerry." He led Jerry into his office and shut the door.

Jerry paced in circles, with an occasional hop for good measure.

Alan said, "I see the wooden cigarette is still getting you into trouble." Alan unbuttoned his jacket and sat on the sofa.

"Oooh," Jerry whined, shaking his head. "I've most certainly offended her..." He popped his mouth three times. "Oooh, stupid, stupid Jerry," he said, pacing in a straight line now, hopping; pacing in the other direction, hopping.

"Don't worry, Jerry, I'll smooth that over. Come, sit. Tell me what's on your mind."

Jerry sighed and sat down on the edge of a nearby chair, hands on his thighs. "You know Katie and I have been seeing each other for a while."

Alan smiled warmly. "I do. How's that going?"

"Really well, thank you for asking." He released a brief, high-pitched hum. "But I've got a problem."

"Yes?"

"I think she's expecting me to…" Another high-pitched hum, pop, pop, pop. "M-make l-l-l…" High pitched hum. He jumped up ran in three tight circles and stopped, head hanging.

"Make love?" Alan said.

Jerry nodded his head frantically.

"Oh my. Jerry," Alan laughed anxiously. "I don't think I can explain _this_ to you. I did a horrible job explaining the kiss, remember?"

"But Alan you have been with so many women…"

"Granted, but I don't think I'm the one you really want to learn from—certainly not for your _first_ time."

"Why not?" Jerry stepped quickly to his seat and sat down.

"Because my, uh…activities and…desires…are not what most people would likely consider…normal…for lack of a better word." Alan laughed. "You certainly don't want to model yourself after me—not in this."

"Oh." Jerry looked at his lap.

"I have to say Jerry," Alan laughed. "I'm in fact very uncomfortable having this conversation with you."

"Why? You're a worldly man."

"Be that as it may, I also have great difficulty exposing my most... intimate... self so blatantly."

"Alan you have to help me," he whined. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

Alan hesitated then said, "Has she indicated that she would like to make your relationship more…physical?"

"Not in so many words, but things happen when we kiss."

"I can imagine they do."

"We kiss now—almost every night." Jerry beamed.

Alan smiled. "That's certainly a step in the right direction."

"It was awkward and scary at first, but she was so kind and patient and gentle."

"She's a good person."

"Oh, she is!" Jerry said excitedly.

Alan smiled warmly.

"I want to…" He hesitated and added shyly, "you know…but…it's so scary. What if I do it wrong?"

Alan scoffed a laugh.

"You're laughing at me."

"No, Jerry, I'm not. I promise. I'm just struck by the surreal nature of this conversation. But your question is completely normal."

"It is?"

Alan nodded. "Absolutely. I asked myself the same thing when I was 14."

Jerry's eyes widened. "You were 14!"

"I'm not proud of it, but yes. My point is that your first time with a woman can be quite...daunting," Alan said. "Especially if she's more experienced than you are. There are so many questions and fears—it leaves you quite…vulnerable. But it can be exhilarating too—not unlike the explorers in the New World, bravely trekking through vast, uncharted territory, planting flags, claiming the land as their own."

Jerry shook his head. "But I'm not brave."

"Not true. You're one of the bravest people I know, Jerry."

Jerry looked up at him. "Really?"

Alan nodded. "Truly. You struggle with this Asperger's on a daily basis; yet you manage to overcome tremendous obstacles to practice law, to have this relationship with Katie. That's incredibly brave."

Jerry smiled with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

"Have you talked with Katie about this?"

"Sort of. I mean, she knows about my…situation. She knows about my failed relationship with Leigh. But I haven't discussed my…sense of urgency, how I feel like I'm running out of time."

"Why don't you tell her?"

"I don't know," he whined. "I've watched you and Denny and other men and you make it look so easy and I guess it only serves to highlight my own awkwardness."

"Easy!" Alan laughed. "It's been anything but easy for me, Jerry. I may be able to seduce women, but that is a very different thing than being in a committed relationship with one; that is something about which I still have much to learn. Committed relationships are anything but easy. I find myself constantly floundering and faltering when confronted with the overwhelming task of satisfying only _one_ woman for an extended amount of time-especially in matters beyond the bedroom."

Jerry purred. "Why do you think you have difficulty with women? I mean, if you have difficulty, what hope can there be for someone like me?"

Alan continued. "When you open yourself up and make yourself vulnerable you run the risk of rejection, abandonment, criticism, boredom; it's an immense amount pressure."

"Fear, you mean," Jerry said.

"Pardon?"

"You mean fear. Fear makes commitment so difficult not pressure."

Alan sat stunned for a moment. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said quietly.

"So what is it _you _fear, Alan?"

Alan didn't expect that question and he was taken aback. He floundered for a moment. "I suppose I fear the same thing everyone fears when opening up to another person."

"Sometimes," Jerry said quietly. "When I look at Katie, I wonder what she sees in me. Sometimes I feel so…unworthy."

Alan's brows furrowed. Jerry's words struck a chord. He swallowed and clenched his jaw. "Jerry, you are one of the worthiest people I know. You really want my advice?"

"I do," Jerry said earnestly.

"Drink some champagne first; it can't hurt."

"Don't be flip, Alan."

"I'm not actually," Alan chuckled lightly. "As it turns out, a little alcohol might help take the edge off. And it can only work to your advantage to ply the lady with alcohol. But be careful to not drink too much because you don't want to take away _all _the edge-some edge is necessary for adequate performance."

"That's your advice? Alcohol?"

"Sure. The first few times at least."

Jerry sprang up and began pacing again.

"Jerry please sit. I can't talk to you when you're pacing."

Jerry hopped, walked in circles and sat down, purring.

"My advice may sound flip, but it's not; it will help you relax a little, which judging by your current demeanor, you could certainly use a couple stiff drinks."

Jerry stopped purring and popped three times.

"The rest of my advice is simply to give yourself over to your primal urges. Let nature take its course. But regardless of what happens, Katie has waited this long and if she truly cares for you, as I suspect she does, she will continue to wait."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm not. Unfortunately, there are no certainties in matters of the heart. But instinct tells me the two of you will be fine."

"I want to have children someday Alan; it's a dream of mine to have a wife and kids."

"It's a good dream; one that suits you. You'll get there, Jerry." Alan leaned forward and put his hand on Jerry's arm. "Look at all you've accomplished, and all you've overcome so far. In the past you have set a goal for yourself and you have achieved it; this will be no different."

"But that took 42 years. I can't wait another 42."

Alan smiled. "Yes. But something tells me it won't take that long."

"You're a good friend," Jerry said warmly. He stood, hands on his thighs.

Alan stood too, buttoning his suit coat.

Jerry put the top of his head against Alan's shoulder. "Thank you."

Alan smiled and patted Jerry's back. "You're going to be just fine, my friend. I promise."

Jerry popped his mouth three times, walked in a small circle, then quickly to the door; he stopped abruptly and spun to face Alan. "What if she's out there?"

"Who? Katie?"

"No, your girlfriend. Alan, I behaved very badly. I called her sweet cheeks and doll face."

Alan chuckled. "I'll walk out with you, but you will need to apologize for that."

Jerry grimaced and nodded. "I'm sorry."

"While I appreciate the apology, she's the one you should apologize to." Alan put his arm around Jerry's shoulder and escorted him out.

Jerry stood in front of Miranda's desk. He looked down at his feet and quickly said, "Ms. Houston, I'm very sorry if I offended you. It was never my intention."

Miranda glanced at Alan and then back to Jerry. "Thank you, Jerry. Apology accepted. You can call me Miranda."

Jerry purred, nodding rapidly. "Thank you...Miranda. Bye Alan." He dashed away, hands on thighs.

Alan watched him, smiling.

Miranda looked at Alan, astounded. "The last time I met him, he acted very differently. What was he doing with the cigarette routine?"

Alan turned to her. "No doubt you made him more nervous and anxious than he already was. He came to speak with me about a very delicate situation. He sometimes uses the wooden cigarette, among other props and devices, to alleviate his anxiety. The cigarette brings out a rather abrasive character in him."

"Abrasive is a good word to describe it."

"Don't hold it against him; it's the nature of his particular…condition."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, while I sympathize with Jerry's condition, he'd better leave the cigarette in his pocket the next time he talks to me."

Alan's smiling eyes drifted over her annoyed face. "Noted; though you do have _incredibly_ sweet cheeks." He glanced down at her bottom and started back to his office.

She wadded a sheet of paper and hit him in the back of the head with it. He paused and said without turning around, "That doesn't negate the sweet cheeks, doll face."

Back in his office he sat at his desk and placed a phone call.

"Hello, Katie. This is Alan Shore. I was wondering if you and I might meet this evening for a drink. There is something I'd like to discuss with you."

* * *

That evening Miranda appeared in Alan's office, purse and coat in hand. "Ready for dinner?"

He came from behind his desk. He brushed a wisp of hair away from her face then placed his hands on her upper arms, rubbing them. "Something's come up. I have to meet with someone."

"A client?"

"No. Jerry's girlfriend, actually, Katie Lloyd. There is something I need to discuss with her.

"I suppose you won't tell me what it is?"

"No. Jerry has entrusted me with a delicate matter and I feel compelled to intervene on his behalf; though he hasn't asked me to, it's something I feel I must do."

Miranda didn't like being kept in the dark, but she decided not to press the issue. "Okay."

He continued, "It shouldn't take long. How about you and Denny go on without me? Get the table and the wine and I'll meet you there as soon as possible." He looked at his watch and said, "It's six now. If I'm not at the restaurant by eight then please order without me."

"Call if you're going to be late." Miranda said.

"I will."

"Please hurry. I don't know if I can handle him all by myself," she chuckled.

"There are very few people whose abilities I have complete faith in, and that list is growing increasingly smaller, but I rank you among the few. I'm very confident in _all _your abilities."

"See you soon." She kissed his cheek and went to find Denny.

* * *

"We'll take my limo," Denny said. He looked at his watch. "But we've still got time." He pulled the stopper out of the crystal scotch decanter and poured their drinks. "Join me." He handed a glass to her and motioned to two chairs in front of the balcony doors. "You can take Alan's seat."

They sat down and Denny pulled a cigar out of his pocket. "Cigar?"

A light smile played on Miranda's lips, "Sure."

"Oh," Denny felt his pockets and looked around on the side table. "I lost my tip cutter. I think it's on my desk." He moved to stand up.

"That's okay," Miranda said, taking the cigar. "I've got it under control." She put a small portion of the tip between her front teeth and bit a circle around it until the tip came off.

Denny watched her, captivated. "I'll be damned," he said, chuckling, clearly impressed.

She dropped the tip in the ash tray. "My dad smoked cigars. Light?"

Denny struck a match and held it for her as she leaned over to draw in the flame. She puffed, stoking the cigar. Once it was lit, she sat back in the chair and exhaled into the air.

"It's almost like having Alan here," Denny said, shaking the match.

"I have nicer legs though," Miranda said, smiling.

Denny laughed. "You do."

They sat silently for a moment, looking out at the skyline, the deepening gray descending on the rose and gold tones of the sunset. Then Denny said, "So…what are your intentions with Alan?"

"My intentions?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Are you asking if I'd like to marry him someday or if I'm just out for a good time?"

"Precisely," Denny said, cutting his eyes at her. "So which is it?"

Miranda studied him for a moment then said, "Well, he asked me to be exclusive with him, but I told him I needed a little time. So, right now, we're just dating—though I suppose it's more than that. We're lovers and becoming good friends, enjoying each other's company; but it's much more significant than a fling. Is that the answer you're looking for?"

"What about marriage?" Denny grumbled.

"I'm not opposed to it…_someday…_but Alan seems a little gun-shy when it comes to commitment, so I'm not holding my breath."

"Depends on the person."

"That's true." She nodded. "He's committed to you, isn't he?"

"That's right," Denny said proudly.

She sipped her scotch. Denny puffed his cigar.

She said, "You're worried about him aren't you?"

Denny hedged. "Well…"

"And you're worried that I'm going to hurt him?"

"He's damaged goods."

"Aren't we all?" Miranda said, studying him through the rising smoke of her cigar.

Denny gazed at her. "I suppose you're right. But Alan is…different."

"I know," she said quietly.

"Those night terrors of his scare the hell out of me. Have you ever seen one?"

"No, but he's told me about them. I can't imagine what it must be like to go through one or to witness one. It's hard to say which would be more frightening."

Denny nodded. "I saw one a couple weeks ago. That's why I shot that kid… that smart-ass what's-his-name…Edgar."

"Ethan?"

"Yea."

"What did he have to do with Alan's night terror?"

Denny glanced at Miranda. He just realized he had said too much so he tip-toed around the subject. "I don't know exactly, not important. The point is that Alan takes all the darkness of the world into himself; he takes it personal. I think it bothers him that he can't fix all the world's problems. So then he takes it all in and..." Denny wound his hand in circles at the side of his head. "He short circuits—gets night terrors and word salad. Me, I just shoot the bad people—that's how you fix the world. No pain, no gain."

Miranda chuckled. "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. So, what happened during Alan's night terror?" she said, rolling her cigar between her thumb and finger, watching Denny.

"He tried to jump out the window. He didn't hear me or see me. He was like a zombie. Terrified me." He pointed his cigar at her. "And I don't scare easy."

"I see." She took a deep drag from her cigar and blew a stream of smoke into the air.

"You do that like Alan," Denny said, smiling.

Miranda smiled at him faintly then took a sip of her scotch.

"The point is, Miranda," Denny said, "Alan needs someone he can trust—like he trusts me."

"Those are awfully big shoes to fill Denny Crane."

"The biggest. You know, it makes me sick how everybody tosses around the word "friend" so frivolously these days; they've cheapened the meaning of it; 'friend' has no meaning any more. But me and Alan, we're not like that. We understand that friendship ought to mean something_. _To us, friendship _means_ something…"

"Everything," Miranda added, her voice distant; her eyes floated over the laugh lines around Denny's eyes. "It means everything."

He nodded. "You got it," he said, watching her through his cigar smoke.

Denny was amazed at how much she reminded him of Alan: how she sat with her leg crossed over the other; how she held her scotch glass; and how she propped one elbow on the chair arm and tilted her head to drag the cigar; how she sat quietly, reservedly like Alan.

"We should all be so lucky," she said somberly, blowing smoke into the ceiling. "To have even one friend like you and Alan have found in each other is a rarity—one of the world's great wonders."

"You need to know, I despise sentiment, but the truth is there will come a time when he's going to need…Alan's going to need…" Denny swallowed hard and looked away. He gazed at the lights of the buildings against the now nearly black sky. "When that time comes…he's going to need…someone… he can _trus_t—as long as there's _just one_…." He emphasized his point with his cigar. "To help vanquish the darkness that sits at his door—that's what _I_ do for him. I remind him how to laugh, how to have fun. I fend off the darkness." He finished off his scotch.

Miranda scrutinized him. "Denny," she said.

He grunted, chewing his cigar, staring out the window.

"I can't promise that Alan and I will always be together—especially given Alan's track record. In fact, sometimes I wake up and wonder: will today be the day he grows bored? Will today be the day he leaves? But I _can_ promise that regardless of what happens to our current relationship, you will have nothing to worry about. As long as I draw breath Alan will always have someone—the one he can trust. And I defy anyone to stand between me and that promise."

"Or what?" he said teasingly.

She smiled crookedly. "I'd ask myself 'What would Denny Crane do?'"

"Then you'd shoot them." He shot an imaginary pistol at the window.

"I would, if I had to, though I'd rather not."

"I heard about the car incident." He laughed. "Hilarious. But _I _wouldn't have stopped at the stereo and speakers."

"I know." She laughed.

"You're going to have to man up. I tell Alan the same thing all the time."

She laughed again.

Denny checked his watch. "Hey, we'd better go. Don't want to keep Joan waiting. Limo should be out front by now."

They gathered up their things and headed toward the elevator.

"You know how to shoot a gun?"

"Sure do. I come from a long line of gun owners. My dad and I shot targets together all the time. I can shoot a soda can off a fence post at 30 paces with a 9mm Beretta."

"I'll be damned. Really?"

"Sure can."

"You want to go paintballing sometime?" He pushed the elevator button.

"I'd love to."

"I need a good shot, a sniper, on my team. If I had a sniper, I could take out that old numb-nuts Crowley and his whole team. Alan tries, but he's not very good at a distance. Don't tell him I told you."

They stepped into the elevator.

"I promise. I won't say a word," Miranda said. The elevator doors closed.


	2. Chapter 2

In Good Hands

Chapter 2

Meanwhile, across town, Alan met Katie at the Quarter Club.

"Thank you for meeting with me," Alan said, guiding her to a nearby table, carrying their drinks. His eyes raked briefly over her body.

"No problem."

He sat the drinks on the table, removed his coat and glanced at his watch. "I have a dinner engagement to get to so I won't take up much of your time."

"What's this all about? Is Jerry in some sort of trouble?" She placed her coat on the back of her chair and sat down, pushing up the sleeves of her sweater.

"Not at all," Alan said sipping his scotch. "I do hate to interfere, but after my conversation with him, I felt duty-bound as his friend to say something. You cannot divulge this conversation with him because it would destroy our friendship and his trust in me."

"I wonder then that you would take the risk?" Katie said, a little confused.

"Perhaps when I'm done, you will understand and your conscience will guide your discretion."

"Very well. I'm all ears."

"You're aware of Jerry's Asperger's."

"I am."

"And how that contributes to his difficulty in maneuvering certain social and physical situations."

"Yes." She sipped her apple-tini.

"He has expressed a certain interest in taking your relationship to the next level."

Her eyebrows shot up; she nearly choked on her drink. "Pardon?"

"I certainly didn't elicit this information. For whatever reason, he has always turned to me for advice of a particular nature."

"On sex?"

"Relationships more precisely, though it sometimes involves sex." Alan chuckled, "And I have no idea why because my life is testament to the fact that I don't have all the answers."

"Clearly."

Alan smiled, laughing to himself.

"For whatever reason he doesn't feel comfortable telling you because, apparently, around you he feels unworthy, inferior. He has that special trait that all men share—a dreadful insecurity about our ability to please women; not just sexually, but in _every_ way. Inside of us hide scared little boys who want approval from the people we most admire, desire, respect, love."

"Why would he feel that he can't tell me?"

"Because as a man he feels like he should be in control—that he should just somehow automatically know what makes you happy and fulfills your desires."

"Poor Jerry."

He gazed at her steadily. "And I suspect your fawning pity for him causes him some anguish, makes him feel inferior, feel even more like a man-child. While most of us are to some degree a man-child by nature, we do manage to give the appearance of men to the world. Jerry is just learning to do this."

"I do _not_ pity him," Katie said angrily.

"I believe you do, perhaps unwittingly, but you do it all the same. I also believe he senses that."

She leaned forward on the table. "So is your purpose here to meddle in something that isn't your business and to insult me in the meantime?"

"Not at all. I know that because you and I don't know each other very well you are suspicious of my motives. However, I assure you my motives, for once, are purely noble. I seek only to help a friend realize a dream. He came to me, very upset, feeling worthless—_his_ words—about his inability to pleasure you. He wanted my advice because he would like to eventually move beyond the kissing stage."

"Oh dear God." She rolled her eyes. She put her hands over her eyes. "How utterly embarrassing."

"Don't worry, I didn't provide him with any specific techniques, though I've amassed an extensive catalog over the years."

"I've heard as much. Some of the things I've heard about you are quite repulsive."

"Those things are likely true. However, to assuage any concerns or doubts you might have, I have managed to persuade him that he doesn't want to model his burgeoning sex life on mine."

"I appreciate that." She grimaced.

"I suspected as much."

"I'm not a prude, if that's what you're insinuating."

"I'm not at all insinuating that, though it's interesting that you did mention it. And were I not otherwise delightfully attached, I might test those conspicuously uncorrupted waters. However, your prudery, or supposed lack thereof, does not concern me in the least."

Her face grew hot under his brazen truthfulness.

He continued. "My concern is for Jerry. He feels very insecure about his abilities. He has a dream of a wife and children—two things that will never happen until he is able to overcome a particular hurdle—a hurdle you happen to have great control and influence over."

"Dare I ask what your advice was?"

"To ply you and himself with champagne—to take the edge off-for starters."

"You're clearly a romantic," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

He leaned back and put his hand to his chest. "It has worked wonders for me in the past. However, I also told him that he should let nature take its course."

"So then why are we here, having this conversation?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, almost seductively, "To persuade nature that she shouldn't be _too_ patient and understanding; to persuade nature to be more proactive and move things along a little faster."

"And why do you concern yourself with this?"

Alan grew serious, locking his eyes with hers. "Because Jerry is my friend; because he's in a great deal of mental and emotional turmoil and suffering; because he is a good, honorable man worthy of his uncomplicated dreams of a family; because he has a great desire for normalcy and he works hard to achieve that end. I can't think of a better person to help right now. Can you?"

She glanced at the table.

"And since I know you to be a kind-hearted and sensitive person, you must be aware that all this is going on around you, and you've wanted to do something about it, but are at a loss as to how to best handle it."

"You're right," she said, looking up at him.

"And you can't tell me that you aren't feeling the same sort of urgency? That your loins don't ache to be satisfied, that your body doesn't crave..."

"No need to be vulgar," she said, frowning at him.

"I apologize," he said. "I thought I was talking to a fellow libertine."

She blushed. "Why are you trying to deliberately antagonize me like I'm in a witness chair?"

He softened. "Forgive me. But I'm experiencing a certain urgency of my own right now on Jerry's behalf."

She glanced down at her drink. "Admittedly, it can be rather frustrating. But I try to be patient. I try to reassure him all the time that I will wait as long as he needs me to."

He touched her hand with his fingertips. "I think if you become more proactive, moving cautiously and slowly, he will soon over come his anxiety about physical contact." He withdrew his hand and sipped his drink.

She toyed with the stem of her glass. "Honestly, I've thought the same myself, but I've been afraid of pushing him…" She winced. "Of scaring him into an even deeper withdrawal."

"I think those days are over. Jerry _wants_ this and because he wants it he will be more receptive to any overtures you might make—provided you move slowly, respecting his boundaries. But you're going to have to be the one to make the first move, Katie, because he won't."

She nodded, chewing her lip. "Very well." She thought for a moment and then said, "Why are you really doing this?" She eyed him suspiciously.

"My reasons are simple. He's my friend. And forgive my bluntness, but he is also a 42 year old virgin who desperately wants and needs human contact. As such, I would like nothing more than for him to bed a woman—even better if should the woman happen to be one he deeply cares about."

"How gallant."

"And, to spare my dear friend any further humiliation, this meeting between you and me never happened."

She smiled. "What meeting?"

He smiled brightly. "Good." He checked his watch. 7:15. "Now, while I always delight in the company of a lovely lady, I have a most lovely woman waiting on me." He stood and buttoned his suit coat.

She sat back, crossed her arms over her chest and studied him for a moment. "You know I don't think you're nearly as bad as your reputation would have me believe."

He scoffed. "A naïve presumption, but you can believe that if it makes you feel better." He removed his overcoat from the back of his chair and slipped his arms into it.

"I might be optimistic Alan Shore but I'm not naïve."

"Katie, one does not get my reputation without having lived up to it at some point." He adjusted his coat collar.

"Perhaps. Or you might be misunderstood."

He smirked sarcastically. "You're not the first to think that, but it would be wrong to make the mistake of believing it. No one is so thoroughly misunderstood by everyone he encounters—not even me. And as much as I'd love to stay and be psychoanalyzed by someone who knows absolutely nothing about me, my delectable lover awaits; there's at least two loins that will _not _go unsatisfied tonight."

"You're really very crude." She stood.

He smirked and grabbed her coat off the back of her chair and held it open for her. "Shall we?"

He helped her into her coat and tossed a five onto the table.

They stepped onto the street, the wind blowing her hair into her face. "Thank you, Alan, for telling me." She pushed her hair back. "I suspect Jerry would have always kept it to himself."

He nodded. "I believe he would have."

"You're a good friend to him and though seen in a prudential light, I suppose you're a good friend to me as well."

"Good evening, Katie."

* * *

During their ride to the restaurant Miranda listened to Denny chatter on about the various guns he owned and hunting expeditions he had been on with various senators and congressmen. She didn't consider herself a gun connoisseur like Denny. She didn't particularly like guns and certainly didn't own one, despite her family's connection to weaponry. Target practice with her father was little more than a chance to be with her father rather than any real interest on her part, though she did exhibit some minor skill.

More than anything Denny was excited and happy to talk and she was content to listen. She imagined this is what Alan did for Denny. If Denny reminded Alan of lightness and youth, then Alan gave Denny the undivided attention and admiration he so apparently craved. Denny's enthusiasm was infectious. She could see why he was the best lawyer in Boston and why Alan was so devoted to him. In some ways Denny reminded her of her own father—bigger than life personality and boyish charm. She wondered if Denny was something of a father figure for Alan—the father Alan wished he had had. Lying in bed one night in each other's arms, Alan told her about his father—granted he didn't say much because she got the distinct impression that he didn't like talking about his father. But she inferred that Alan's father was an abusive man given to violent rages. She shuddered to think of what Alan had to endure at the hands of one who was supposed to love and nurture him. Perhaps that's why she was content to let Denny do all the talking; it took her to an old familiar place when she was once a daddy's girl, before things at home fell apart, before he fell apart.

The car stopped in front of the restaurant and Miranda climbed out. Denny followed.

She took a few paces and turned to wait for Denny to catch up. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of him slipping and falling full force on the ground, cracking his head against the pavement.

"Denny!" She screamed, running to him.

She fell to her knees beside him. The world around her seemed to fall away from her as if sucked into a giant vacuum. She saw only Denny, heard only her own blood rushing and beating in her ears, felt only the tightness in her chest.

"Denny!" She shouted. "Denny! Can you hear me? Denny?"

He was unconscious.

She bent down over him, checking his breathing. Thank God, he was breathing at least. She checked his head. No blood. People began to crowd around.

The driver jumped out of the limo and ran over to them.

She said to the driver, "Call 911. We need help here now!" _Control the panic. Control the panic. _She told herself. _Keep it together._ Everything moved in painfully slow motion. Her shaking hands felt for Denny's pulse; it seemed strong and regular. She listened again for his breathing. His breath had grown shallow. She checked his pulse again. It was getting weaker. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open. She pulled up his eye lid and shone the cell light in his eyes; his pupils were dilated and did not change in the light.

"Oh no, oh no." She jerked off her coat and put it over him.

The crowd was growing larger. Miranda glanced up and shouted at the crowd. "He's going into shock. Everyone stay back. We need space. I need someone's coat. I need another coat now! You!" She screamed, pointing at a man with a thick parka. "Please!" He stepped up, pulled his coat off and handed it to her.

"Thank you." She put the coat on top of him.

She spoke into Denny's ear. "Hang with me! You're Denny Crane," she said. "And Denny Crane is not a quitter."

The driver approached her again. "Emergency unit is on the way, ma'am."

"Good give me your coat too." The driver did as instructed. She laid the coat over Denny. She said to the driver, "Now stand by his feet." She jumped up and lifted Denny's feet about a foot off the ground "Here, hold his feet just like this-no lower, no higer. Hold them steady."

She knelt down again, listening to his breath. Breathing getting shallower, pulse growing fainter. "Come on, Denny. Hold on. Hold on. Help is on the way. I can hear the sirens now. "

Soon the EMTs arrived with a gurney, pushing through the crowd. She explained what was going on and they moved Denny onto the gurney and loaded him in the back of the ambulance.

Joan arrived while Denny was being loaded. "Denny? Was that Denny Crane? What's going on," she said.

Miranda approached her. "Are you Joan?" Miranda asked.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I'm Miranda Houston, Alan Shore's girlfriend. I'm sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances, but Denny has just had an accident and they're taking him to the hospital."

Joan put her hand to her mouth. "Oh dear."

Miranda continued. "I'm going to follow the ambulance in Denny's limo. Would you like to come with me?"

"Yes, yes."

During the ride to hospital, Miranda called Alan.

The nerves in her body gushed with relief to hear his velvety voice on the line.

"Alan, there's been an accident. Denny…."

"Is he okay?" Alan's voice tightened.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. The EMTs are taking him to the hospital now. Joan and I are following in Denny's limo."

"I'm on my way," Alan said.

* * *

Miranda was in the waiting room, holding Joan's hand, when Alan entered in a flurry. His face was tense with worry and fear, discernable only to her trained eye.

She rose to meet him.

"How is he?" His eyes fell upon her disheveled appearance and the bruises and scrapes on her knees.

"Stable. He's getting an MRI as we speak. The doctor says because of his age and his…mad cow…they're going to keep him at least tonight for observation. She said they would let us know when we can go back to see him."

"What happened?" He said, his eyes watering.

If he started crying she would not be able to maintain her own composure; she never could handle seeing a man cry. She recalled once when her father cried, when his sister died—how he crumpled to the floor on his knees, wailing, sobbing. That night the earth fell from under her. Her dad was always the solid rock, the bold defender of her family; she had never seen the chinks in his armor before that night. Since then she felt as though she walked upon sand. And now, as she stood face to face with Alan's greatest fear, she felt as though she stood in the sand at the edge of the ocean—each wave washing over her feet and rolling back, dragging the sand from under her as it left her behind.

"We were getting out of the car. I heard a sound, something like a loud grunt; just as I turned he was going down. Apparently there was some black ice on the sidewalk. I couldn't get to him fast enough to catch the fall. He was already down."

He studied her. "There's something you're not telling me."

"When he fell, he hit his head… pretty hard."

Alan sucked in his breath and set his jaw. His eyes penetrated her. "Miranda, I sense that you're trying to protect me. Don't. I want all the details."

She peeked around him to check on Joan who stared blankly at the TV.

Miranda swallowed. "Very well. Joan arrived after the fact, so she doesn't know."

"Understood."

"When he went down his head hit hard enough that he went unconscious. Then he began going into shock. His breathing became increasingly shallow as did his pulse. My unprofessional diagnosis?" She rubbed her brow. "He has, at the least, a severe concussion, and at worst—it could be much worse—brain damage, internal hemorrhaging, seizures, amnesia." She crossed her arms over her chest. "The doctor has confirmed my suspicions, but the truth is that right now they just don't know. They'll know more after the tests. I did all I could…" Her voice quavered.

Alan looked at her horrified. Acid rose in his throat.

Miranda hugged herself tighter, suddenly feeling cold.

He collected himself. "Well, that explains your appearance."

"That's the least of my concerns. I'm just glad he…you know." She took in and released a deep shaky breath.

"You must have been terrified."

"I'll deal with that later. Right now I'm just so thankful." Puddles formed in her eyes. She looked away and up at the ceiling. She told herself to remain strong. She couldn't believe this was happening right now. She was already emotionally strung out after her conversation with Denny, memories of her father, then the accident, seeing Denny lying on the cold ground—and now this! She wanted to comfort Alan and knew he needed it, but she couldn't handle the emotional overload. She sucked in her breath and tears stung at her eyes again. "I'm okay." She put her hands on her hips, trying to breathe.

He moved to hug her. She stepped back a little. "Please don't." She said, fighting the emotion. "If you hug me, I will fall apart. I can't fall apart right now. I can't."

He set his jaw, his brow furrowed, dropping his hands to his sides. He put one hand on her arm and said, quietly, "Why don't you go home, get cleaned up, get some dinner. I'll wait here."

"I will—after I see him. I just need to know…"

He nodded. "Okay. Come, let's sit." He loosened his tie, preparing for a long wait.

The three waited together for what seemed an eternity, sipping weak coffee from styrofoam cups.

When Miranda saw the doctor, a short gray woman, she whispered to Alan, "That's her."

They all three stood and met the doctor.

"Ms. Houston, Ms. Prescott…" the doctor looked at Alan.

"Dr. Rosenthal," she said, shaking his hand.

"Alan Shore," he said, "Mr. Crane's friend and colleague."

The doctor nodded. "Your friend is fine."

They all exhaled at once, chuckling anxiously.

"He has a class 3 concussion, but the MRI is clear of any additional trauma. He's, of course, bruised a little from the fall and broke his left wrist. We want to keep him tonight just as a precautionary measure." She put her hands in her lab coat pockets, "At this time, we don't expect to perform any surgeries, nor are there any signs of complications…yet. Sometimes complications may take hours or days to develop." She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "Chances are, if he can get through the next couple months without any complications, he's in the clear."

"A couple months?" Alan said surprised.

"Yes. It's a long time, I know. But the brain is a delicate system and takes a long time to heal, if it heals at all. So once we send him home, please keep a close eye on him. Look for signs of confusion, dizziness, fatigue, irritability, restlessness, memory loss, fainting—or anything else that seems unusual."

"Can we see him now?" Alan said.

"Sure. Come with me."

They followed the doctor down the hall. She talked as she walked with them. "It's possible he might be a little groggy from the pain medications, but he's well. Here he is," she said, stopping at a room. She walked into the room. "Hello, Mr. Crane, how are we this evening?"

"I'd be better if I knew where I was. Who the hell are you?" He grumbled.

"I'm doctor Rosenthal. I'm observing you for concussion and I set your broken wrist. You had a bit of a tumble, lost consciousness and gave us quite a scare."

He looked at the faces surrounding him. "Am I dead? Is this my funeral? I always pictured there'd be more. And where's Sarah Palin? I thought for sure she'd be at my funeral. Have we eaten yet?"

Alan smiled.

"You lost consciousness for a while, but you're anything but dead, Mr. Crane. Your MRI is all clear, your vitals are returning to normal. You're going to be fine," the doctor said. "You have Ms. Houston here to thank. Had she not been there things might have turned out very differently."

"Lost consciousness? You mean I passed out? Baloney. I haven't passed out on a woman since 1978. And there's no way I would pass out on that one." He pointed at Miranda. "Besides only girls pass out." He linked his hands across his stomach.

"I'm afraid you did pass out Mr. Crane. In fact, you went into shock and Ms. Houston prevented it from turning into a much worse situation," the doctor said.

"Any mouth to mouth?" Denny asked.

"I don't think so, Mr. Crane," the doctor added. "That usually isn't required when the patient can breathe on his own."

"Well, it can't hurt! Here," he shifted. "Try it again." He pursed his lips.

Miranda looked at Alan. "He's fine."

Joan stood on the other side of the bed. "Hey sugarplum," she said.

Alan and Miranda looked at each other. Alan mouthed, "Sugarplum?" Miranda suppressed a laugh behind her hand.

"Joan," Denny growled lasciviously. "There you are my little Hot Tamale. C'mere give daddy a kiss."

She giggled and leaned over to kiss him. He reached through the rail on the bed to goose her. She jumped.

"Denny Crane," she said playfully, "You rascally devil."

"Ha! Ha!" he laughed.

Miranda turned to Alan. "Now that my mind is at ease, I'm going to go home to get cleaned up. I'll come back with some dinner. What would you like?"

He placed a hand on the small of her back. "I leave it to your capable hands. You're familiar enough with my tastes."

"I'll hurry."

Alan sat in the chair next to the bed and, smiling, watched Denny and Joan reunite.

* * *

Within a couple hours Miranda had come bouncing in, carrying a bag. She wore jeans and a sweater, her hair tossed in a messy ponytail. She set the bag on the bedside table and pulled out four Styrofoam boxes. "I hope no one minds steaks and baked potatoes. Joan, I got yours well done. She passed a box to Joan."

"Thanks sweetie."

"Alan, I know you like yours medium rare."

"I do. How did you manage all this?"

"It's what I do best." She winked.

"I can testify to the contrary," he said, running his eyes over her jeans as she leaned over to pull out another box.

She pulled out another box. "This one is for me." She sat the box in a chair near Alan.

Denny looked longingly at the bag. "You wouldn't happen to have another one of those would you?"

Miranda smiled mischievously, reached into the bag and pulled out the last box. "I do; it's medium rare. I hope that's okay."

He wiggled excitedly in the bed. "I don't care as long as it's not hospital food."

She placed it in front of him and opened the lid. "Oh! I stole us some steak knives too."

"That's my girl," Alan said.

She handed a steak knife to everyone then stood at Denny's bed side, cutting his steak in little pieces.

Alan looked up at her, admiringly.

Miranda tucked a napkin in the neck of Denny's hospital gown then sat down to eat her food.

After dinner, Miranda insisted Joan take the limo back to get her car and then send the driver home, since she wanted to stay a little longer to watch the eleven o'clock news with the boys.

When the news had ended, she stood. "Well fellas, I'm tired. I'm going home. But I want to leave you with something." She reached in the bag and pulled out two glasses and bottle of sparkling apple cider. "It's not scotch, but given that at least one of you is on some powerful painkillers, the scotch would be a bad idea." She poured some cider in the glasses and handed it to them. "And finally..." she said, pulling two wooden cigars out of the bag. "Courtesy of Jerry."

Alan chuckled.

She handed each of them a wooden cigar

"Wood?" Denny said. "I've already got all the wood I need right now. I need a real cigar."

"Too much information Denny," Miranda said.

Alan laughed.

She said, "I know you're disappointed that it's not the real thing, Denny, but smoking inside the hospital is kind of illegal and potentially dangerous with oxygen tanks and other explosive and flammable materials lying around."

She put her hand on Denny's shoulder. "Get some rest." She kissed his temple. "There are playing cards and Hot Tamales in the bag too."

Denny looked at Alan. "She's a keeper."

Alan stood. "I'll walk you out," he said. "I'll be right back Denny."

* * *

Alan escorted her down to the hospital lobby.

He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead then pulled back, looking longingly in her eyes, smoothing her hair. He blinked rapidly. "I'm forever in your debt." He swallowed hard. "If you hadn't been there…." He clenched his jaw tightly.

"Don't. I don't want to…" But it was too late. Tears swelled in her eyes and a couple escaped down her cheek. She quickly swiped them away. "Cry," she said, slapping him playfully on the chest.

He placed a gentle kiss near her eye and whispered in her ear, "_When friendship or love our sympathies move; when truth, in a glance, should appear, the lips may beguile, with a dimple or smile, but the test of affection's a tear._" He then pulled away and looked warmly, deeply into her eyes.

"Only you would quote Byron to me," she said quietly. "It's not even his best work."

"That's all I know of that particular poem. Read it once in college, has always stuck with me. Nevertheless, thank you… my friend."

"Friend? Wow. That means a lot, coming from you."

"I'll hail you a cab," he said. "But first…" he put his arm inside her coat, around her waist. "I wanted to say…" he pulled her close, "I think I really like your casual wear—the jeans especially. Maybe we can convince the partners to start casual Friday."

She chuckled. "Is that really what you wanted to say?"

"There's more."

She looked askance.

"I like the messy ponytail too."

"Well, I'm glad you got that off your chest."

"It had been weighing on me for some time."

"I suppose you're spending the night here tonight?"

"I am."

"So I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Yes." He paused. "I can't possibly thank you enough for…" his voice caught; he swallowed and shook his head, briefly unable to meet her eye.

"You would have done the same."

He regained his composure. "I would have tried, but the truth is that I wouldn't have known what to do. If it had been only me with him…he might not…"

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I've been trained."

He inhaled deeply and looked off to the side.

"Maybe you should take a first aid/CPR class…just in case you need it sometime?"

"I suppose I could do that… or…" His eyes met hers. "I could just make sure you're always around." He smirked.

"But what happens when I'm not?

"Are you planning on _not_ being around?"

"No. I've already told you that I'm not going anywhere. But I can't possibly be with you twenty-four-seven, Alan. You're sophisticated enough to know how unrealistic that is. Besides, I know you—such an arrangement would never make you happy."

"I'm not particularly suited to happiness anyway."

"Nevertheless…"

There was something like guilt or sadness in his gaze.

"Are you okay?" she said.

He nodded and lifted a hand to gently stroke her cheek. "I have a confession," he said.

"Oh?"

"I've told you about my last…attachment."

"Tara?"

"Yes."

"What about her?"

"She and I had a…code for expressing certain…sentiments."

"Such as 'You smell good?'"

"Yes. I want to apologize for using the same phrase with you. But I just felt compelled to let you know…yet I couldn't say _the _words." His face was marked with anxiety and tension.

She shrugged. "No worries." She tried to appear nonchalant.

He released a nervous scoff mixed with laughter.

"Until you can manage the right words maybe we can come up with our own code, if that helps."

"What would you suggest?"

"How about something similar like 'you have great hair' or 'I like your smile' then someday you can work up to a phrase that's closer to the point like 'I heart you.'"

He smiled. "You _do_ have great hair." He smoothed his hand over her ponytail. "I can really sink my fingers into it. I especially like to feel it trailing down my chest and stomach when you …"

"Travel south?" She smiled coyly.

He laughed. "Yes." He removed the clip from her hair and dreamily watched it fall over her shoulders. He smoothed it into place. "I _really_ like your hair a lot," he said. They kissed gently, passionately while he ran his hands through her soft, smooth tresses.

When they pulled apart she said, "I need to go so you can get back to Denny."

"I'll hail you a cab."

They walked to the street corner where Alan hailed a cab for her. The taxi pulled up and Alan stepped to the rear of the car, opening the door to let her in. He closed the door after she climbed in. They waved to each other, and he stood on the street, watching, until the cab disappeared among the steady stream of cars.


End file.
